


Competency

by ktbl



Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)
Genre: Adults Behaving Like Adults, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Worship, Competency Kink, Cunnilingus, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Massage, Oral Sex, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24336667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktbl/pseuds/ktbl
Summary: He steps back, avoiding the leg sweep she tries, but not the quick flip up that catches him in the shoulder. “You are feisty this morning.”“When am I not? I’ve got a meeting I’d kill to avoid with the East Coast at eleven. This might be enough to see me through. They have some bullshit proposal they’re throwing at me and I have to hear them out even if I know my answer already.” They exchange strikes and blows and she manages to hook her fingers into his shirt, using his greater size and momentum to drop him onto the mats, securing him with an arm hold. She makes a satisfied hum and feels him tap her thigh almost immediately.“Far be it from me to give you a bad morning.” The pleased sound of his voice, laced with a little bit of predatory confidence, sends her adrenaline spiking.--
Relationships: Sonya Blade/Takahashi Kenshi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Competency

**Author's Note:**

> Life's been rough, and sometimes we all just need a little fluff. Oh, and smut.

“You are a twisted, evil woman.”

“Mistaking me for Mileena? I’m offended. Gonna drop you for that.” Sonya rolls her head around on her neck, makes circles with her shoulders to loosen her muscles.

“You and her both, then. Sparring first thing in the morning?” Kenshi finishes stretching and tucks his loose shirt back in. For morning sparring, he’s argued there’s no point in getting geared up when he’ll need to shower anyway. That leaves them facing off in far more informal attire. He snugs the fit of the blindfold around his head, ensuring it is settled. Sonya huffs a little, ponytail swishing as she shakes her head.

“Gets the blood pumping. It makes me ready to deal with the day.”

“I can think of far better ways to get blood pumping.” He pauses for a heartbeat, just long enough for her to push at him with an open palm. “Like your morning runs.”

She steps back and drops into a fighting stance. “You,” she accuses, “are being lazy.”

“I,” he counters, readying his hands, “see no adequate reason to start with a sparring match at seven in the morning. I stand by my statement.”

“It’ll put me in a good mood for the rest of the day.” 

“I suppose that should be enough, for the good of the base. I will suffer for everyone’s benefit.” He flicks his hands in a gesture. “Ready when you are.”

“You’ll be a smartass the entire time. Not sure you’re going to suffer at all. I can’t wait to lay you out flat.”

“Seven in the morning in the base training room?” He raises a brow. “Again, I can think of far better-“

“Shut it, Kenshi.” Her voice is clipped, and he lets out a soft, low chuckle as he moves in to strike. She dodges the open-handed push, and he spins around her close enough that she can feel the movement of the air. 

“There’s no one down here but us. I know.” He steps back, avoiding the leg sweep she tries, but not the quick flip up that catches him in the shoulder. “You are feisty this morning.”

“When am I not? I’ve got a meeting I’d kill to avoid with the East Coast at eleven. This might be enough to see me through. They have some bullshit proposal they’re throwing at me and I have to hear them out even if I know my answer already.” They exchange strikes and blows and she manages to hook her fingers into his shirt, using his greater size and momentum to drop him onto the mats, securing him with an arm hold. She makes a satisfied hum and feels him tap her thigh almost immediately.

“Far be it from me to give you a bad morning.” 

The pleased sound of his voice, laced with a little bit of predatory confidence, sends her adrenaline spiking. That tone means he’s got something planned. And he does, because the minute they’re up again, he’s pushing forward, seeking out a grapple, trying to catch his hands on her. She was smart - she’s not in what passes for her uniform yet. For a morning workout, she’s in something closer to gymnastics gear, spandex and no pockets or belts or holsters to offer him purchase. His hands slide along her with a bit more than professional curiosity, fingers digging into muscle. She pushes away and tries to get more space but he holds her fast, trying to get his hands in a position to throw her.

It should be only three falls, but instead, they spend half an hour tussling on the mats in a companionable way, knocking each other down in new and interesting ways for the sake of it. Kenshi manages to trap her in a lock and he holds her there for just a moment while she tries to figure out an escape. She makes a slightly frustrated and embarrassed noise, but it’s a pleasant change - even if she’d die before she admits it out loud. She succeeds in catching him in a scissor lock, hooking him at speed with one foot, and they both drop to the ground with grunts.

“Didn’t think I’d pull that off.” She releases the lock and edges back, breathing heavily.

“I didn’t either.” Kenshi sits up, stretching one leg out in front of him, and rubs at one of his legs where she hooked him. “I was expecting another sweep.”

“Your stance was too good. If I can’t shift you, I’m fucked,” she pants, and then levers herself up off the ground. “Especially when you’ve got all your gear on - I’m lucky you’re not, right now. With those boots and the leg plates, you’re immovable unless I catch you off-guard.”

“That is rather the point. Whereas you never hold still.” He stands, brushing his hands off against each other. “Is that what you needed? Are you ready to terrorize the base, Colonel?”

“Terrorize is such a strong word.” She grins, reaching a hand out and brushing it across his chest and down one arm as she walks past him. “But accurate, I suppose. After a shower. And coffee.”

“I’m not putting them at risk that way.” 

Kenshi doesn’t need to see her to know what’s happening - he enjoys eavesdropping on these, though he claims it’s to be sure he knows what her current work is. She stares into a monitor, knowing her face is on display for the half-dozen people in a meeting room on the East Coast in some base. He, meanwhile, is safely out of visual range, stretched out on the couch in her office, listening to the meeting. The overwhelming rich, bitter scent of coffee is gone - she must have run out, though there’s a hint of it still lingering in the air. Now it’s carbon paper, the faint smell of ozone, and the sour tang of frustration.

“Colonel Blade, the reasoning behind the request is sound. The most effective way to resolve the situation-“

“If I’m given direct orders by my chain of command, I will.” Her voice tightens. He knows that tone and the motions that go with it - jaw muscles go taut, chin tilts up, the muscles in her neck and shoulders go rock-hard. He has been stretched out in a bed beside her, his hands on her, when she has had that same determined, irritated voice. “But the fact that they haven’t done that yet - and I know you were in conversations with my CO earlier - tells me they won’t. You’re here to try to convince me to do it.” 

He tries not to laugh and bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. Whatever Sonya wants is almost always what happens. Between her stubbornness and her forceful personality, only manuals, regulations, and direct orders have any chance at success. Or appeals to Earthrealm security - and these stuffed shirts don't have that. Right now, it doesn’t matter how many people sitting in an office want her to do whatever it is, he can tell she’s not going to do it without major concessions. Nothing gets past her. It’s one of his selfish pleasures to listen to her verbally destroy these uniformed monkeys, and he's very content to lie here on her couch and listen to her do so. She’s as brutal and effective in the meeting room as the battlefield, and it’s maddeningly appealing.

“You have platoons uniquely trained for these kinds of operations.”

“You are welcome to send some of your soldiers to me for training. Along with a commensurate shift in budgeting. I’ll need to promote more officers in order to train and equip them. But I’m not sending my people into a place like that without a damn good reason, and that’s something you’ve failed to provide. I have a duty to see to their best interests, and that includes well-planned missions with tactically appropriate decisions. What you are proposing is using my men as bullet shields and as a distraction.” Her voice is smooth and sure. She knows this game and has been letting the amateurs play before she drops them all to the ground. 

Kenshi almost feels bad for the men on the other end of the call.

Almost.

“What about that - consultant you have? The guy with the sword. He can do it.” The man’s voice is a bit tinny, but it’s confident and cocky like he’s found the perfect loophole to exploit. “If he’s a consultant, we can just request his services based on-“

He can hear her heartbeat pick up, her breathing catch for a moment.

“If you look closely at his file and contract,” and her words are cold and even, but laced with something like guilt, or confessing a secret, “you’ll note he’s attached to me. Personally. I sign off on what he does, but all his actions - infiltrations, reconnaissance, active combat operations - are at my sole and exclusive discretion. Takahashi’s mine, signed, sealed, and approved all the way up the chain.” Her voice takes on a hint of smugness. “And I mean all the way.” 

He manages to keep from moving, hopes his surprise doesn’t show. He’d agreed to the contract Sonya and a member of the human resources team had read out to him and recorded, and there had been nothing in there about being directly attached to her. Then again, he doesn’t remember the exact terms. He does know he received notification that some exclusivity clauses had been placed on his contract. He’s never listened to them, sure that Sonya would have explained if they were relevant. Clearly she’s relied on his opposition to politics and paperwork for her own ends. He shakes his head in admiration. 

“How the fuck did you manage that?” The voice on the other end sputters, shocked.

“I don’t push for much,” she says with satisfaction, “but when you help imprison a god and save the world, you can pull a few strings. You want Takahashi, you come through me. Not my CO. Me. But I don’t think you want to try to convince me to lend out my consultant for this shitshow you’re proposing. Come back to me when you’ve actually got something, or the budget for it, but until then, keep your hands off my people.”

There was little banter after that, the call cooling significantly, and he heard her heavy exhalation as the call disconnected. 

“Thank fucking God that’s over,” she sighs. He makes no motion to rise, not certain how she will respond after that. “It’ll be a miracle if I’m not disciplined.”

“Who would have thought Colonel Blade wouldn’t share her toys.” He reaches up to grab the soft stress ball sailing through the air at him. It is a regular thing, and he will never admit it’s a habit now to raise his hand even before he can sense the object coming towards him. After any meeting he eavesdrops on, the first comment he makes inevitably sends the little foam ball towards his head. “And they won’t discipline you. You are the threat, the bogeyman. You are nearly exempt from a chain of command, except they know that is the only leash they have for you.”

“Shut up, I just saved you from being sent somewhere to train idiots. Keep sounding ungrateful and I’ll ship you off myself.”

“Did you hear me complain at the prospect? I do not mind traveling.”

“If you want the briefing, I’ll read it all to you - I know you were only in here for the last half of it. But I’m not agreeing to send you somewhere I wouldn’t send myself. Hell, I wouldn’t send an Outworlder where they’re proposing and that should tell you something.” She’s exasperated; he hears her sharp exhale as loudly as if she’s sitting next to him. “But if that’s what you want, I’ll do it for you.” Her tone is grudging, her heartbeat faster than she’d ever lead on, but she’s made the offer.

“Maybe later,” he says. “If they return with an actual proposal you’d consider.” 

She watches.

It isn’t often she can watch - she is usually too busy doing, neck-deep in orders and paperwork and briefings. The last meeting of the day has been canceled, the paperwork wrestled into submission for at least eight hours, and now she has the strangest experience of all - a blank space in her schedule. She’s even looked for a few things further to do - get ahead on the next day’s work - only to find out that Kenshi has finished a few of them with his clearances and authority, verbal reports filed or messages sent saying that he’s dealt with it. Some of it was running paperwork, but he’s even taken one of the combat assessment sessions on her calendar. He’s taking his role as her informal executive officer with deadly seriousness, it seems. Whatever he does, she doesn’t question if it was done to standards - sometimes his are more exacting than her own.

Nonetheless, she has been anticipating the session at the end of the day, hoping for an opportunity to unwind. Thwarted, she stalks down the hallways to the training rooms. One is occupied, so she steps inside and motions for silence to one soldier who seemed ready to call out attention. She leans against the wall near the door, crossing her arms over her chest, kicking one booted foot up to press against it.

Kenshi is part of the way through a one-on-one match, what looks like a practice of moves rehearsed earlier. He is armored, wielding a wooden sword in lieu of Sento - not a bad choice, given that some of these soldiers look new enough that they wouldn’t know how to handle live steel. Or spirit-infused steel, as the case may be. Whatever the hell it is. She watches the soldiers move, gauging them, but her eyes keep drifting back to the man running the show.

Damn, he looks good. He looks good all the time - but never better than when he’s in motion in a fight. She feels a tiny smile pull at the side of her mouth as she watches him move. He ducks a strike, raps the soldier on the back with the bokken, and then twists away again. Going against him this morning was good, getting her hands on him and knocking each other around - but sometimes it’s nice just to sit back and watch how he moves, all easy grace and skill and confidence.

“Forgive the irony,” the swordsman says dryly as the soldier backs up, “but watch your weak side. I should not be able to get that close, not even with a wooden weapon.” The soldier rubs where he was struck and nods; Sonya watches as Kenshi motions to a second man to advance. He has to know she is here, but he makes no move to acknowledge her. “The same again. Do not hold back. Do your best to ensure I cannot hit you, or block the blade. Begin.”

“Officer-“ one of the soldiers begins, and she waves at them to stop the abrupt change in atmosphere, but it’s already gone - they’re snapping straight.

“As you were. Gods know no one needs to be standing on protocol after just getting run through the wringer by him.” She jerks her chin towards Kenshi, and the professional expression on his face. “Good fighting, all of you. He’s a hard bastard to knock down.”

“Colonel Blade. You decided to come observe?” The swordsman raises a brow, and tosses the bokken up in one hand, catching it hilt-first as it came down.

“Since you sniped it from my schedule,” she replies with a hint of irritation, “I thought I should.”

“Permission to speak freely, ma’am?” Sonya nods at the speaker, her eyes flicking to where Kenshi is sitting down on a bench to buckle on his boots.

“Like we stand on ceremony here,” she responds, hearing a couple of chuckles.

“This wasn’t SOP. Makes for good practice.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” She eyes Kenshi where he sits, his own lips bowed in a slight smile, head turned intently as his fingers settle his boots on with long familiarity. “You keep Takahashi out of trouble, so I suppose I can take that into consideration. Dismissed, all of you.” She waves a hand, and they salute, streaming out the door.

“I was looking forward to that,” Sonya says acidly, a few moments after the door thuds shut behind the last of her soldiers. “But you wrecked my fun.”

“Your fun?” He slides Sento’s baldric on, adjusting the buckle slightly. 

“The training session. You did so damn much today, I managed to actually get my head above water.” She crosses her arms again, still leaning against the wall. “Started the day in here, wanted to end it here. Was looking forward to laying some of them out.”

He walks over, moving loose and easy. “I could always take you for another roll on the mats.” He sets one hand next to her head, gloved fingers spread wide on the wall. Something taut begins to loosen in her, and she lets some of her tension go, tipping her head back and slumping a bit against the wall.

“Yeah, you’re good at that. You didn’t have to take that session, though.”

“I wanted to. Not enough of your soldiers know what do to when they see a sword.”

“Because we teach them to shoot the guy with the sword before he can close to close-quarters combat.” 

His mouth hangs open in a smile for a moment, and she wants desperately to lean forward and kiss him, haul him tight against her and show him just how much she appreciates him and what he does. She reaches up, runs her fingers through the dark, rough hairs of his beard, feeling a little thrill shoot through her. Her eyes go to the door, and then to him. “You wrecked my fun,” she repeats. “Think I’m gonna have to find something else to entertain me now.”

“Oh, did I? What are you planning to replace it?” His voice drops low, and she flicks her eyes towards the door again, and back to him. She knows that voice, and she watches his grin widen slightly

“Haven’t decided yet. I suppose I don’t feel too badly, though, since you busted your ass on my behalf today. Arguably I owe you one.” One hand rests on the side of his face, one hand hooking into his wide belt. “Or two or three. Jesus, Kenshi, you really didn’t have to do all of that. I didn’t ask for help.”

“You didn’t have to.” 

He shrugs as he says it, and nearly breaks her that he says it so casually. That e it’s a miracle of restraint that she doesn’t do something. She’s not sure what she would do, anyway - she knows if she starts to kiss him she’ll be trying to strip him out of his gear, and that’s a long, slow process she isn’t interested in. She manages to clear her head for a moment, enough to hear him keep talking. “It gives me something to do instead of sit around the base and wonder where I could be, what I could be doing instead. And it makes you easier to manage.”

“Manage me? I don’t need managing.” He snorts and she can see the skin across his forehead shift, evidence of raised brows. She sighs softly, glances again towards the door, and shakes her head. She can’t risk it - not with her luck. “Well, it gives me a chunk of free time I didn’t think I had. Might even be able to get out of here on time tonight.”

“You do not need managing. Ah, yes. As if I have not been asked to do that any number of times.” He turns his face into her palm, pressing a kiss to it, mouth lingering warm against her palm. “And your plans once you return home?”

“Don’t know. Want to tag along?” She straightens, dropping her hands to her sides, heart pounding. If someone had walked in - fuck, she doesn’t even want to think about it. “Don’t want you to feel obligated.”

“As if you could ever,” he says, stepping back to give her room, “make me do anything I did not wish to do.”

“That almost sounds like a challenge.” She moves for the door, opening it. “Is that a challenge?”

“I know better than to answer that.” 

They maintain a veneer of professionalism until her door shuts behind them, and she slides the deadbolt home and turns the main lock. She doesn’t bother with the lights yet, moving out of his way and bending over to unlace her boots and hang her hat up on a hook. She pads out of the entryway and to the kitchen, flicking on a light to consider the options in her refrigerator. Before she has the opportunity, she feels a hand on one hip, and a second brushing her hair away from the nape of her neck.

“You realize that if you have any intent to actually have dinner, this is not the way to go about doing it.”

Kenshi drops a kiss on the back of her neck and gently tugs her back against him. “If anyone can figure out how do manage such a thing, Sonya, it will be you.” He wraps his free arm around her, kissing her neck again. She laughs, turning around in the embrace, and backing up against the countertop and hopping up onto it. He steps into the space between her legs, and she wraps her arms around his neck, running her fingers through his hair. 

“I owe you for today.” Her hands slide along his jaw, cupping his face in her hands. “You seriously saved my ass.”

“Calculated self-interest,” he replies, turning his head and kissing her palm again. “I have a grateful partner, and a dinner invitation, and if I play my cards right, a warm bed for the evening.” 

“Watch it, or you’re gonna find yourself out on your ass on my doorstep, hungry and out of a job.” Her hands drift down his neck, over the red leather shoulder armor, and she makes an irritable sound at it. 

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he replies with cocky self-assurance. “For one-“

“After I smother you because you won’t stop talking, it’ll be difficult to haul the body around. You have a point. Maybe we should go out to the farm. Jax would help me hide the body.” She purses her lips, clicking her tongue against her palate in consideration. “Want me to call and see if Vera will set another couple places at dinner?”

“You would not waste food on me if you planned to kill me,” he points out, unzipping her vest slowly. He makes a soft grunt of satisfaction, then pauses long enough to reach a hand up to his mouth and use his teeth to pull one glove free, and then peels the other off and sets it on the counter beside her. Skin on skin, his fingers move beneath her shirt, and she lets out a pleased sigh. 

“Go upstairs, get out of that mess,” she half orders, and he makes a skeptical sound. “Hey, it’ll take you at least twenty minutes, and that will be long enough for me to throw something together so I don’t consider chewing off your arm.” 

“Maybe I should keep the armor on, then.”

“Pain in my ass,” she grumbles, twisting one hand into his dark hair. Before she can pull him to her lips, he’s already there, and mouths meet with a noise of shared satisfaction. It’s easy, it’s familiar, and his hands grip her sides, warm and stable, and she holds him against, trying to find a way to prove with lips and tongue how much she appreciates him, or at least to set the tone for the rest of the evening. When they separate, it’s not far, foreheads tilting against one another. “Go upstairs,” she repeats, “because the gods know I won’t have patience to wait to get you out of that, if we keep this up.”

“So noted.” He kisses her again, long and slow, and she feels desire start to curl inside her. “Though I would rather stay here.” His hands work up her body, climbing the ladder of her ribs, and her mouth hangs open in a look of pleased surprise just for a moment, long enough for her to chuckle and then try to find somewhere to seize. Her fingers hook under what act as lapels to his coat. 

“You can try and convince me it’s worth waiting,” she says, her voice low in her throat, one heel hooking around the back of his leg, keeping him close to her. “But you seemed to have an interest in getting me home early.”

“Says the woman who just put me in a hold,” he points out, and she chuckles. He pulls one hand out from under her shirt, tips her chin up and nips gently at the bared skin. He peppers her throat and crosses her collarbones with kisses until she sags slightly against him and moans softly. 

“Says the woman who hasn’t taken off her thigh holster and her service weapon.” She summons up willpower, finds the steel in her spine, and releases him from her grip. “Go, before I start peeling you out of that like a lobster,” she says firmly. “We’ll never find all the pieces if I do.” He drops a chaste kiss on the tip of her nose and steps back, other hand withdrawing from her shirt. “Lock this up for me, would you, if you’re going up?” She unholsters her pistol, and he pauses for a moment, but then his hand closes around it carefully. “Thanks.” She closes her eyes, inhales and exhales steadily as she hears him ascend the stairs, and a few minutes later the sound of hot water running. She has time, then. Time for cooking, and time to figure out why he makes her feel like she’s twenty and stupid and happy, instead of a woman nearly twice that with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

He returns sometime later, hair damp and dressed simply in a tee shirt and loose pants, barefoot and the blindfold nowhere to be seen. It always thrills her when she sees him bare-faced, the sensitive skin of his hands and feet and face exposed. It’s little, and it’s something she would have called stupid a decade ago, before she realized what it meant. They eat in an easy quiet, and he nudges her upstairs afterward.

“I do not require total supervision,” he says pointedly, when she begins to resist. “I can load a dishwasher so you can get out of your gear.”

She opens her mouth, closes it quick and hard enough her teeth click together before she says something she’ll regret. The impulsive words on her tongue want to escape, but she won’t let them, not here and not now. She climbs the stairs, unclipping and unbuckling her equipment, building a pile on one side of her dresser that mimics the pile of Kenshi’s, neatly folded and placed on the corner chair and side table. She tugs off the jacket and then checks each pocket, pulling out small bits of daily detritus, before consigning the jacket to her laundry basket. She shucks her pants with equal care, though the pockets there are perfunctory at best - everything important is in pouches on her belt, or holstered or clipped to her. Shirt, bra, and underwear all join the jacket. She hears a sound of dismay from the doorway a moment after the clothing all thuds into the basket.

“Problem?”

“I had been hoping to do that,” Kenshi says, crossing to her. 

“Too bad. I’ve got plans and it wasn’t you spending half an hour to get three pieces of clothing off me.” She chuckles at the expression of vague annoyance that crosses his face. He brushes his hands along her bare back, and it’s suddenly very difficult to fill her lungs. His hands run up to her shoulders, then back down, spreading out wide over her ass. He makes a soft happy noise, and she snorts, putting her hands on his chest and pushing him away. “You, clothes off, bed.”

“Direct tonight.”

“Not as direct as you’re hoping.” She walks to her nightstand and pulling a couple of things from it. She crosses her arms, enjoying the sight as he strips off his shirt, the play of muscles beneath the skin, the twists of scars and one faintly purple bruise rising on a shoulder. “Shit, Kenshi-“

“Not you,” he says, fingers touching the bruise. “Or at least, not just you. One of your men connected there as well. So you cannot wholly blame yourself.”

“My soldiers, my responsibility,” she says, frowning. “My fault either way.”

A sharp-edged smile crosses his face and he shakes his head for a moment. “You would have made a good daimyo. Everything on your shoulders.” He tugs off his pants and she shakes her head silently, biting on her lower lip. He’s a mass of muscle and scars and she could watch him all day. He’s half-hard already, and she takes a more than a bit of pleasure in that. 

“Enough with the flattery. On the bed, on your stomach, wiseass.” 

He quirks a brow, but settles himself on the bed slowly and deliberately. Her eyes follow his movements with a bit of possessive satisfaction. All that lithe muscle, the wide planes of his hands, the rough skin and rippled scars, the surprisingly gentle and graceful hands, and the smart-ass mouth - that’s hers too. She doesn’t have any right to claim it like that, except that they’re partners.

She plucks the bottle of massage oil and the towel up, and straddles his lower back once he’s settled. She opens the bottle and pours oil into her hand, the smell of vanilla and spices wafting into the air. It grows stronger as the oil warms in her hand, and only when she it’s warm does she drizzle it onto the expanse of his back. “I know for a fact you’ll be a mess in the morning if we don’t work some of this out now.” 

He doesn’t respond, but reaches back with an arm and brushes his fingers along the skin of her leg, sending sparks through her. She works at his shoulders, kneading and pressing along the muscle groups, focusing on a pair of niggling knots that insist on slipping around. She works his biceps and triceps, feeling a growing sense of pleasure build as he relaxes under her hands. She works her way down his back, taking more oil as needed and working the hard muscles of his thighs and calves. His breathing has gone slow and steady, and she is fairly certain he’s gone to sleep. She spares a glance for the clock - shockingly early, by their standards. The room is quiet, everything is quiet except for the faint hum of electrics and the evening noises of the base. She’d never liked quiet much, always wondered what was wrong, what was skulking around in it. Since they had begun whatever this was, she had gained an appreciation for it, and how loud quiet could be. 

She wipes the excess oil off on her shoulders and thighs, then tucks the oil and towel back into the nightstand. She turns back with the intent of settling herself and grabbing her tablet to triage her inbox - it will have inevitably exploded - only to find herself captured thoroughly in his arms, slowly and inexorably brought down to the mattress. She goes soft and loose in his arms; she’s put a lot of effort into keeping his muscles from going tight. Some other night she might have fought back, made him work for it, but not tonight. He seems almost surprised by it, raising a dark brow.

“What was that for?” He is voice is thick and low, and she wonders if she woke him up when she moved. Guilt jabs at her.

“Like I said, you’ll be a mess in the morning if I didn’t. You pulled training you didn’t need to, and I bet you didn’t warm up right before you did.” His chest rumbles with a chuckle and he kisses her collarbones. “Self-serving interest of my own. Can’t give you things to do if I’m worried you’re going to seize up and fall over.”

“I am not _that_ old, or out of practice.” He settles her on her back, and stretches himself out on her left side, stroking her face with one hand, and leans over to kiss her. They fit together easily now, after significant amounts of practice. Her mouth opens easily for him, and he knows how to fit his right against her. Slow and easy kisses gain heat and take on an edge of roughness, of wanting. Patience has never been her virtue, and it looks like tonight he plans on taking his time, so she might as well settle in. She runs her nails through his short beard, feeling the satisfying prickle against the pads of her fingertips. Her hands grasp at his face, his shoulders, holding him tight and close to her. His hand is busy, ghosting over the shell of her ear, nail drawing a line down the side of her neck and shoulder.

His mouth begins a slow descent down the center of her chest, and she is convinced he has calculated her shirt coverage down to the millimeter when he stops and sucks skin into his mouth, leaving a red mark just below where the neckline ends. She makes a choked sound, looking down at him, and his mouth is busy making a second, and a third, a constellation over the curve of one breast. He cups it in one hand, taking her nipple into his mouth, and she slides a hand into his hair, nails scraping at his scalp. 

“I swear to God, if you try to give me a hickey there-“

She can feel him grin against her, and his tongue makes circles around her nipple, drawing it up gently between his teeth. 

“An interesting experiment, for another time,” he says, and his lips continue to wend their way down her body. Pleasure begins to uncurl, following with his lips, slowly suffusing her with the sensation. He makes deliberate stops over the things that mar her skin, scars and nicks and spots, lips and tongue and teeth mapping each one out, sometimes tracing with his fingers. Arousal pools, warm and wet, between her legs, and she lets herself relax into the quiet, He presses a kiss into the soft skin of her belly and along faint ridges of stretch marks from long years ago. She feels her face flush, pleasure warring with dismay for just a moment. He lifts his head up and rests his chin on her stomach, looking up to her. “You are beautiful, Sonya.”

“And you’re blind, and definitely took a blow to the head today.”

“My statement stands.” He draws his fingers along the creases of her hips, and she feels herself rising up off the bed unconsciously, into his touch. He shifts her, nudging her thighs apart so he can kneel between them instead of straddling her, and the faint pleasant tingling from her thighs pressed together vanishes. Wanting bubbles up in its place, a need for touch to replace it. He presses his nose into the patch of honey-colored curls between her thighs, and she can feel him inhale, feel him grin again as he presses a line of kisses along the inside of one thigh. A hand follows along on the outside of her other leg, and she can’t help the shudder at the mixture of sensations, the hand and his lips and the roughness of his beard, and damn how good it feels. She knots a hand into the bedsheets as he keeps working his way along her body, ending with a close-mouthed kiss on the top of each foot. 

“I love your legs,” he says, taking one in his hands, sliding his thumbs along it and driving into a tense knot of muscle in her calf. “You do not treat them as well as you should.” He settles himself comfortably and lifts one leg up, propping her heel on his shoulder, and running his thumbs along her calf. She closes her eyes and goes limp as he repeats the movements on the second, raising her second heel to join the first.

“They’re just legs. Nothing to write home about.” 

“If you will not take proper care of them, I will. They are some of my favorite things.” He kisses the insides of her ankles, and slowly lowers his body, heels hooked over his shoulders, and works his way up to the apex of her thighs. “As is this.” One hand hooks onto the curve of her upper thigh, as if to hold her in place, and the other moves to part the folds of sensitive skin. 

“Kenshi-“ She can only choke out his name as his tongue darts out, lapping at her slowly, and she moans with relief and satisfaction. One of her hands finds his head, and she tangles her hand in his hair. He’s got her number - he’s made her relaxed enough she can’t think about anything but how damn nice this is. She can’t think coherently, doesn’t want to anymore. She feels him slide one finger inside her, and then a second, and she hopes she hasn’t broken skin the way her nails are digging into his scalp. She slides down on his fingers, and he lifts his mouth from her.

“Problem?” He sounds far too pleased with himself and she would smack him if it didn’t feel so good.

“No,” and the monosyllable is startlingly difficult to say. He tucks his head back down between her legs, redoubling his efforts, everything almost too much but not enough at the same time. He shifted his hand, moved his mouth, and then the heat pooling deep in her belly broke free, and she found herself arching against his mouth, letting out a wordless shout. When she comes back to herself, he has her tucked up beside him, murmuring something in Japanese, almost too low for her to hear. 

“That is, too,” he says, as she exhales heavily and kisses his chest. She looks up at his face, the crinkles beside his eyes, the grin on his face that is unaccountably sexy and self-satisfied, and for a moment is sure her heart will burst, but for other reasons entirely. “I love watching you come apart.” 

“Nngh.” She kisses him, licks the taste of herself off his lips, out of his mouth. “Unfair. You got my guard down.” Damnit, she can smell herself on him, and she’s not entirely certain it’s possible for her to get wetter.

“That was the point. I spent the day making sure you could stop being vigilant for ten minutes.”

“You never turn down a challenge.” She ran her fingers along the side of his face and winked. “Come over here, you cocky bastard.”

“Yes ma’am,” he teases, and she huffs as he settles himself again between her thighs, tilting his head, waiting for a sign from her for consent. She lifts her hips, and he raises a brow. 

“Fuck me, damn it,” she swears, and there is no better sound than his laughter and then the low, satisfied moan as he slides into her, filling her until they are joined together so they cannot tell where one ends and one begins. His hands roam over her, trying to reach all of her at once, and she definitely cannot think straight anymore. She shifts slightly and arches her hips, wanting to take him deeper, somehow have more of him, find a last piece of him to claim. He reaches down, pulls one of her legs up, and settles it against his chest, hand stroking up and down her shin and calf, grasping her ankle, and shifting minutely, finding a new angle that makes her suddenly arch and whimper - when has she ever whimpered? The look on his face is satisfied.

“I like that noise. I should find a way to have you make it again.”

“Fuck you,” she moans, and he pauses, withdrawing almost fully. She bucks, deliberately plunging forward to try to settle him inside her again, and he runs his fingers from her throat across her stomach to finally, slowly, swipe the pad of his thumb across her clit. She makes the noise again, and then pounds a fist into the bed in frustration. He chuckles, working at her again as he slowly picks up his pace, and she can feel the familiar knot of tension, of need, coiling at the base of her spine. He knows her, and this is good, beyond good, having him moving inside her, and the knot snugs itself a little tighter as she grinds up against his hand.

His breathing grows ragged, punctuated by groans and rough inhalations; one of her hands reaches up, pulls him down for a needy open-mouthed kiss as she keeps rhythm, not wanting, not able, to still her movements. “Shame to make you do all the work. Want me to-?”

“Good,” he says, shaking his head, “this is good,” kissing her again and then bringing his mouth to one breast, coaxing a full-throated moan from her. “Unless you want to-?”

“I’m good. All good. Just- checking.” She twines her legs around him, thighs flexing, and locking her ankles behind him. He tucks his head into the curve of her neck and shoulder, nipping gently at the skin, and she can feel his breathing grow more irregular, the thrusting more urgent.

“Sonya,” he groans, hands tangling in her hair as he sucks in a breath, and she arches up against him, wanting to give as good as she’s getting, make him feel at least half as good as he’s making her feel. She’s never been one for dirty talking, but she does know one thing that she can do. As difficult as it is, she tries to focus for a moment on the sensations, the pleasure, the utter joy of the experience, surrendering herself utterly, and trying to think as loudly as she can about how good this all feels. 

There are advantages to sleeping with a telepath.

She feels his cock jerk, and the sudden tenseness of his body, the pressure as she’s driven into the mattress, and is fairly certain she’s achieved her goal. He pulls out slightly and thrusts back into her, fingers curling even more tightly into her hair, and she feels the sudden lassitude settle into him as he shifts, weight on his arms, mouth moving softly against the curve where neck and shoulder meet. 

“Got you.” She strokes his back with one hand, catching her breath.

“You always do.” Savoring the contact with her, bodies hot and a thin sheen of sweat, he pulls out and lays down beside her, rolling her into his chest. “It is always ever only a matter of time, with you.”

She chuckles, leans over, and kisses him again lazily, feeling him deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding along hers. “God, I love you,” she sighs with full-body pleasure. The words are out before she can hold them back. She does not control time - she cannot haul the words back in. She freezes, unable to breathe, and begins to panic. His fingers curl around her more closely. She feels his lips on hers again, but she is too frozen with a tight fist of shame and fear and worry clutching at her heart to respond.

“I know,” he says a moment later, but she still can’t figure out how to fill her lungs again, how to exhale or inhale. “Took you long enough,” he adds, brushing his lips across hers, and she can breathe again - her body makes her in the end, forcing a deep shuddering inhale.

“Kenshi, I-“

“Do not dare say you did not mean it.” He cuts her off abruptly, voice gruff and thick with something she does not want to name. “You can only lie poorly, to a telepath. And you do not lie.”

“Yeah, well.” She closes her eyes and doesn’t know what do do, how to rest, so she lies there, frozen against him, hoping she has not just undone years with four simple, stupid words. This is a partnership, a shared thing, that she values far too much to ruin, and here she has - 

“I love you too, you realize,” he says finally, as if taking pity on her. She pulls her head away, looks up at him wide-eyed as she realizes the cost it must have had to say it directly. That only now that she’s said the words, can he safely say them. 

“And here I thought you did seven AM sparring matches for everyone.” Her voice isn’t shaky, not at all. 

“But not the paperwork. Though,” he adds, grazing her side with a fingertip, “I have some thoughts about your conference calls…”


End file.
